Happiness Unraveled
by procrastin8or951
Summary: But really, what happened to anybody? Expectations got too high or life got too hard or they just slipped one day. It happened to everyone. Even Nick Stokes. -Warning: eating disorder. Nick-centric, mid-second season and third season. Reposted
1. Chapter 1

**Happiness Unraveled**

**Chapter One**

The first time was just after he saw the Nigel Crane tapes.

An insane man muttering, worshipping, obsessing over him. He stood frozen in the middle of the room as the tape played, muscles rigid. They were all looking at him, no doubt about that, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the video. Couldn't tear them away until the tape ended, static washed the screen, and he found himself walking stiffly from the room, down the hall, out the front doors and to his truck.

He found himself driving home, hopping out of the truck and locking it, walking up the front walk, in through the front door. Locking it. Picking up the phone and the takeout menus at the same time, calling for a pizza because he was too damn tired, confused, stressed-out to cook.

The pizza came, large, with pepperoni and jalapeños. He set it in the very center of the table, sat down, and began to eat it from the box – no plate, no napkins, not even anything to drink.

One piece, two, three – usually he'd stop. Usually he wasn't thinking about stolen laundry, stolen security, stolen identity. He picked up a fourth piece. Screw 'usually.'

Five, six – why don't you stop now? – seven, and then the last one. Three bites and it's gone.

He found himself pushing his chair back, standing up, walking down the hall to the bathroom. He found himself pressing on his overfull stomach, watching it all come back up. The sight of it made him throw up all over again. And again. And again until nothing was left. Again.

He flushed the toilet, wiped his mouth, brushed his teeth. Walked back to the kitchen, picked up the empty box and took it to the garbage outside. Hid the evidence.

He locked the doors, closed the blinds, changed out of his work clothes into loose pajama bottoms. Fell into bed and slept for the first time in almost three days.

That was the first time Nick Stokes made himself sick. It was the last time he didn't feel guilty.

* * *

The second time – but who was counting, really? – was after the Warner case.

It would've been easier to hate the muscle-head boyfriend if he had meant to kill her. But, never one to back down from a challenge, Nick hated him anyway. Watched the extreme athlete casually running his millionth mile, evading questions, effortlessly moving past the death of his girlfriend – it was enough to make anyone sick. Or, at least, that's what Nick told himself.

He ate an entire pot of spaghetti, then threw up until his abs hurt so badly he could hardly breathe. The extreme athlete-turned-murderer probably could've gone longer.

Nick hauled himself up, flushed, brushed his teeth, then stopped. Stared at himself in the mirror.

What are you doing? What the hell do you think you're doing? You know better than this, what are you doing?

But he wouldn't do it again. Clearly. It was just this once. Well, okay, twice. Twice, but that wasn't a habit. Twice was just a mistake. It wouldn't happen again.

At least, that's what Nick told himself.

* * *

The fifth time – but really, no one here is counting – the case hit just a little too close to home. He spent the day looking far too closely at something he was too close to in the first place. He spent the day watching his friends probe a girl's life, learning her disease. He spent the day praying they wouldn't find his.

"What happened to these girls?" Warrick asked. But really, what happened to anybody? Expectations got too high or life got too hard or they just slipped one day. It happened to everyone.

And who were they to pity Ashleigh James? Who were they to say whose fault any of it was? Was it her fault for wanting too much of herself? Or theirs, for taking too much from her?

Nick didn't eat all day – the fear of discovery strangled his appetite. When he finally got home, he glanced toward his kitchen and all the things he could eat. And he went to bed empty, stomach growling, but if he started he wouldn't stop, and he had promised he wouldn't do this.

He woke up after an hour and ate all the leftovers in the fridge, then threw up until he couldn't stand up.

He spent his night lying on the bathroom floor, promising whoever was listening that this was the last time. Wondering how it ever could be.

* * *

The ninth time – if anyone were counting – it was all his fault.

Forgetting case identifiers. Losing his credibility to the jury, to the judge, to Grissom. To prove once and for all that he wasn't ready.

Rookie mistake, stupid, stupid, how the hell could you let yourself do that? Do you enjoy disappointing people?

Tom Haviland was put in jail, despite his screw-up. Because Grissom always saves the day – and that's why he gets to judge. Those that don't screw up get to frown on those who do.

Nick ate three burgers from a fast food joint, along with fries, before he even got home. At home, he threw it all up, then lay on the bathroom floor, thoughts almost silent.

This time he didn't make any promises. Those who screw up, those who have already lost their credibility to everyone who matters – their promises are just another nail in the coffin.

* * *

The umpteenth time – no one cares to count – he very nearly got caught.

It was one of the worst ideas he'd ever had – which was saying something – to throw up in the lab. But he'd eaten a huge stack of pancakes and he couldn't remember how to let a meal rest. He had to get rid of it.

To his credit, Nick had checked the whole locker room. The Grave shift had already left anyway. Nick had come back for the clothes in his locker that desperately needed to be laundered. Wouldn't do to let them sit.

Then the pancakes were sitting heavily in his stomach and he wanted – no, needed – for them to be gone. He closed the door to the bathroom in the back of the locker room, went to the far stall, and shoved his fingers down his throat.

It hurt, hurt like hell, but God, at the same time, it felt good. Felt deserved. Made it all better. But still, his eyes watered, his throat burned, his stomach ached. He was glad when it was over.

Except that when he unlocked the stall door and stepped toward the sink, who should be there but Warrick Brown.

"Jesus, Nick, are you all right?" Green eyes wide, surprised, taken aback.

"Yeah." He leaned weakly on the sink, rinsed his hands, wet a paper towel. "Must be coming down with something." He put the cool towel to his forehead, then the back of his neck. He really was feeling too hot, though he doubted that had anything to do with fever.

Warrick frowned. "Want me to drive you home?"

"Nah. I've got it. I'm fine, really." He remembered a time when he and Warrick had shared everything. When they bet on cases and played basketball after work. When was the last time he had talked to Warrick about anything besides a case?

"You sure? You really don't look so good," Warrick said, taking a step forward.

"I'm fine," Nick said forcefully, and Warrick's eyes widened again. "Thanks, though," he added awkwardly.

Before Warrick could say more, Nick was pushing past him to leave, tossing the paper towel in the trash. "See you tomorrow."

He didn't look back, walking quickly all the way out to his car, then resting his head on the steering wheel.

The umpteenth time, he forced himself to say the word. Said it so quietly he could hardly hear it over the soft chug of air-conditioning in his truck. Said the word that was thick in his throat and heavy on his heart.

"Bulimia."


	2. Chapter 2

**Happiness Unraveled**

**Chapter Two**

_Is a lie a lie if it keeps the happiness?_

Nobody wants to know the truth. They would rather be lied to, would rather hear sugar-coated niceties than the truth.

Nick was quick to offer them. Eager to please, the words were fully formed, waiting in his mouth to be pasted as reassurances, patches in his façade. The glue of society became mortar to hold together the wall of lies he built to keep himself safe.

Catherine said he looked pale, he said he was only tired, pulled on that easy-going grin and let her believe it.

Maybe because he was so hoping to believe it himself.

_A white lie is the quickest, like a lethal injection. It's there before you know it_.

* * *

_Is a lie a lie if you never spoke untruth?_

Everyone forgets. A birthday, a phone bill, the location of the keys. That he threw up twice this morning.

"You sound awful," Sara murmured as he cleared his tortured throat.

"Throat's just a little sore." Because I threw up until I could taste blood.

"Getting sick?"

"A little. I've had it a while now."

She believed him, her mouth tugged into that sympathy face he knew so well, and why wouldn't it? She looked down at her evidence log; he was long put out of mind.

But when she got up to leave, she paused, brushed fingers across his forehead, hummed worry, and told him to get some rest.

He thought he could still taste the blood at the back of his throat – tangy, wet iron red – but the guilt he swallowed hard slipped past and all he could taste now is his next meal coming up.

_Omission is a passive lie, a manipulation of assumption. The facts quietly vanish._

* * *

_Is a lie a lie if you expand the truth?_

He wouldn't pretend he wasn't sick. He wasn't delusional, he wasn't insane. "It's just a little stomach bug," he told Warrick, and it was. He was sick to his stomach, vomiting every few hours. His stomach wouldn't settle, he couldn't keep anything down.

"You were sick a few weeks ago too. Is everything okay?" Warrick squinted, stretched up a little to intimidate possible lies, hovered for an answer.

"Yeah. Everything's fine." No better than okay, but really no worse. He was doing okay, he was not dying, no need for a hospital, everyone was still alive and well.

"You should take the rest of the day…"

"I'll be okay." He would. Someday.

_An exaggeration is uncomfortable – truth has a tight boundary and it's cutting into his skin._

* * *

_ Is a lie a lie if the truth is wrong?_

There are procedures. Policies. Ecklie-style checklists and protocols for people like Nick. A simple set of steps to tell him he's sick, broken, failing. To tell him the generic "we" will be here for him and that all that matters is that he get "better."

The checklist hung shabbily from the bulletin board all year, a little-read blurb at the top failing to attract attention. Except for one day each year, when the checklist was removed, photocopied, passed out to the crime lab public, discussed, evaluated, then returned to its compartment.

The day of, each team took one hour to meet with the supervisor. They reviewed the list. They discussed common symptoms of the usual problems. Depression. Drug abuse. Mental illness. Eating disorders. Because "we" care about our people and "we" want them to be successful.

They all sat in the break room. Grissom stood, pondered his paper and scowled at lost time. Catherine perched on the arm of the sofa, Sara sat to one side of the couch, Warrick lounged in an understuffed chair. Nick sat at the table, muscles rigid, mechanically drinking his third cup of coffee and relishing the sting on his raw esophagus.

"Common symptoms of bulimia nervosa," Grissom read. He charged each of them with listing one.

"Problems with body image," Catherine muttered, rolling her eyes. Nick softly touched his own ribcage. He had no delusions about this – he used to be fit, now he was thin. He was afraid of gaining weight, even after the vomiting. He worked out religiously.

"Fear of weight gain." Nick cringed. Damn.

"Any physical signs?" Grissom prompted.

"Fatigue," Sara offered and Nick pushed away his coffee. "Weight change." He touched his ribs again. "Reddened, bruised, or abraded knuckles." Nick dropped his hand to his lap and clenched his fist until the scabs cracked and he felt new blood squeeze through.

"Nick?"

"I need to…I'll be back," he said roughly, shoving his chair back and escaping. He almost ran through the halls, nearly crashed into Greg, stumbled into the bathroom and threw up. No fingers, no medicine. Just guilt, fear, and truth.

He threw up breakfast, threw up again a half-hour later, and now all he had left is the three cups of coffee, bile, and diluted blood. He vomited until he shook violently, until he couldn't catch his breath, until his vision greyed and he melted to the floor, back against the side of the stall.

"Nicky…" Grissom knelt beside him, pressed a cool, damp towel to his forehead. The room spun lazily and he tried to focus on Grissom. He gagged, lurched back to his original position and threw up again.

Grissom reached for his right hand, found a pulse in the thin wrist.

"I'm okay," he rasped, coughing again. "Please."

Grissom shook his head, eyes lingering on Nick's bleeding hand.

"I fell a couple days ago, running," Nick offered, eyes falling closed again because Grissom's eyes were sad and Nick was too sad already. "Every- everything is fine."

"Come on, Nicky, let's get you up." Grissom stood, held out his hand, helped haul Nick to his feet. Nick listed to the side, hit his arm hard on the door of the stall, forcing Grissom to grab his arm and steady him.

Stumble to the sink, wash hands, rinse mouth twice, wet face and neck, paper towels to dry off, no worse for the wear. Except the paleness, red eyes, blood-stained lips, dry and broken skin on his knuckles.

"Warrick'll drive you home," Grissom said, and Nick didn't argue.

Warrick dropped him off, he escaped into his dark house with little protest, put his back to the door and slid down, head in his hands. Because he knew the truth.

_We lie to ourselves every day. All the time. When the truth is too hard, too sharp, too painful, too wrong to be true. But it's a lie. Shreds your character, self-respect, you – until all that's left are a few frayed edges rough-hewn into someone you don't know._


	3. Chapter 3

**Happiness Unraveled**

**Chapter Three**

He's all torn edges, raw wounds, gaping holes. A victim of his own war. He's the brother in battle, fighting for an unknown cause. But instead of dying himself, he survives, returns, but everything he ever knew was lost. He's an orphan, abandoned, a little piece of a person, floating through the world.

Nick walks through the grocery store, around crime scenes, through the halls of the lab he's worked in for years, unattached. He watches no one make eye contact, watches them duck around him without acknowledgement. He sees the blood pouring from his wounds, but they walk through the drops, leaving smeared footprints, never noticing the evidence.

He thought they would piece it together. Call him on everything. Grissom would ask what really happened to his hand. Sara would ask if he had gotten that cough looked at, Warrick would ask if that stomach bug ever ran its course, and Catherine would ask if he was eating properly.

– "_No. No, it's all wrong. It's all a lie. I'm sick. I need you to help me, I need someone to save me because I think I might be dying but I can't seem to stop…" – _

And he'd say "I'm fine." "I'm better" "Everything will be okay" "No, I don't need any help." And they'd believe him. They always did.

When he had a family, they believed him too. Good old Nicky. Boy scout, goody-goody, honest to a fault, you're-an-open-book-we-know-all-your-secrets Nick. If only.

Friends change through your life. In elementary school, friends are the ones who share their toys. High school, it's the ones who keep your secrets. In college, the ones who make secrets with you. In adulthood, friends are the ones who stick with you, don't ask your secrets, help you pretend they don't exist.

They won't ask, they'll make excuses; they'll do anything not to believe you're broken. Anything not to invade your privacy.

Nick's friends are so good, they might just let him die.

* * *

Warrick asks Nick to hit the gym with him. Like old times.

_He hasn't seen the inside of a gym in months. He hates the mirrors, the stares, the locker room. His defined ribs, tremblingly weak muscles, the protein bars Warrick always insists on. _

"Sure." He grins, puts on the mask, and tells Warrick he'll meet him after work.

The gym is packed, stuffy, overheated. He can't breathe, he feels sick, but his stomach is empty and throwing up more acid will just hurt his throat even more. Already he can barely croak.

He turns his back to Warrick in the locker room, ashamed, not that it helps hide his protruding ribs, the sharpness of his bones. He catches Warrick staring, but no one says a word.

He struggles to lift half the weight he used to. Sweat is pouring off of him, but water makes his stomach hurt so he goes without. Warrick spots for him, eyes the weights and the water bottle, narrows his eyes and is silent.

They run to cool down, two miles. This, this Nick can do. He runs five miles a day – the reason he's thin, despite everything. He has to make up for…and even being too thin, he can't stop.

Starting the third mile because he's running faster than Warrick, he feels it coming. The dizziness, the chest pains, the stomachache. The darkening of his vision, clenching of his muscles, then the weakness. He stumbles off the treadmill, pulling the emergency stop cord, lurches to the ground, fighting so hard not to gag that he forgets to fight the rest of it and everything goes dark.

Nick wakes up. He's probably lost about a minute – not too much, really – but Warrick is leaning over him.

"Nicky, you okay? What happened?" His green eyes are worried.

Nick struggles to stand, shakes his head, and drawls "I think I'm just a little dehydrated," with a sheepish grin. "Been a while since I worked out this hard."

Warrick frowns but nods. "You're okay?"

"Yeah." Nick forces another smile. "Maybe we should call it quits?"

"Yeah."

They don't speak again until "goodbye."

Whenever he's full, he wants to be empty, whenever he's empty he needs to be full. He tries everything to fill up the space – work, sex, food.

Grissom watches Nick pass the maximum overtime for the month and keep coming in for extra, unpaid shifts. Nick knows Grissom sees what he's doing. But he'll never say anything. So Nick keeps working, coming in after only an hour or two of sleep, looking for extra work. Grissom is always there to provide.

Not at work, he goes to bars, to clubs, even places like parks and stores. Never to drink or dance or shop, but to talk. To find someone nice, someone who will listen to more than just pick up lines and casual flirting. He hasn't found her yet. Someday he'll quit trying.

Eating works. Fills the void. He eats until there's no empty space at all, no room for anything else. Not need or fear or love or loneliness. Until he feels better.

But then he remembers it all, remembers it's all just pretend, all a game where he's just a pawn out of control and useless, and he empties himself and tries to start over. Empty. Searching. Until he gets desperate again in a few hours.

He wishes they had seen. If they had put it together, he could have believed they would see through all the lies. That they could've pulled him out of the game, could have called off the war he's waging for something he can't find.

But they don't see. He's empty, hollow, broken. Lonely. They don't see. If they did…

If only.


	4. Chapter 4

**Happiness Unraveled**

**Chapter Four**

He knows it has to end. Somehow, some way.

He can feel it, in the ache of his muscles, his bones, when his body makes the slow, precarious journey to an upright position when he gets up in the morning. In the dizzy sickened spells that strike when he stands from kneeling over evidence, gets up for more coffee, or just for no reason at all.

Nick stands before the mirror, marks the progression. The ladder of his ribs – he hooks his fingers under each rung, feels the solidity of his prison bars. He smoothes his hands over the jut of hipbones, the concave stomach. None of his bones are _that_ pronounced, but they're clearly visible. If his coworkers saw…but Warrick has seen and he didn't care and maybe he's imagining it all anyway. He prods his stomach just above the navel, then drops to the floor to do some sit-ups. It's not that he's fat. But he used to have a six-pack, and now he thinks he can see each individual organ under the skin. He can't. But he thinks it might be close. He needs some muscle mass, something solid and hard to protect him.

He stares longer at the darkness dusted under his eyes, leaking from his pupils and the depths of his soul. And he knows no one has looked here, because if they had, they'd all know the whole story. It's written across his pale skin, bloodshot eyes, and prominent cheekbones.

Nick knows they won't stop him. It's been months, and no one is the wiser. He'll have to stop on his own.

He starts a journal. He writes his food, his calories, when he throws up. He sketches out a plan.

Nick hasn't eaten a meal without vomiting in a very long time. He actually cannot remember the last time. So of course, the first step must be just a simple meal.

He sits at the break room table in the lab, his paper-bag lunch spread out before him. Turkey (which he hates) sandwich with lettuce and tomato, and a banana. It's a very thin sandwich, a small banana, and he thinks maybe he can eat this much without feeling that sinking in the pit of his stomach.

He takes the smallest of bites and chews fourteen times. He chose a food he hates, chose a number of chews, because he doesn't want to go too far. _I am in control._

Second bite. Third. Fourth. He breathes steadily through his nose. His lunch break is almost over and he's eaten a quarter of a sandwich.

"Hey Nick," Greg greets, flopping into a chair across from him and pulling out an In-N-Out burger, Nick's favorite. It smells perfect – meat, cheese, special sauce, onions. God what Nick wouldn't give for one bite - except then it would be . .fivewholeburgers.

"H-hey," he forces out more than a couple seconds too late. It sounds awkward in the silence, and he quickly ducks his head and watches his own food.

"You okay?" Greg asks offhandedly, biting into the burger. Nick swallows hard.

"Uh, yeah. I just…Yeah."

"Want some of my fries?" Nick's eyes lock on the paper boat full of crisp fried potato.

"I'm okay, thanks," he manages, his eyes never leaving them.

"Aw, you know you want some. Really, have a couple," Greg insists. Nick looks up at him sharply, notes the calculating gaze Greg fixes him with. What is this? Are they testing him? Trying to feed him? Have they finally noticed only to draw the wrong conclusion?

He takes one fry, pops it into his mouth. Then another. Another. Half of the second burger Greg bought, then the whole thing when Greg insists he's full. Then the rest of the fries. The turkey sandwich. The banana.

Greg seems pleased – they really did think he was anorexic or something. "Guess it's time to get back to work, eh?" He stands up, waits for Nick.

"I'll be right there," Nick says softly, remaining seated.

"Okay, no problem," Greg says lightly, and he leaves the break room. Nick watches him go, sees him give the thumbs-up to someone down the hall.

No control. No self-respect. God, Nick, how can you do this to yourself? He feels sick. The waistband of his jeans is cutting into his stomach, which feels hard to his touch as he inconspicuously rests a hand on it, conscious of the windows of the break room. The familiar churning feeling begins, the faint hint of nausea because, like Pavlov's dog, he knows what to expect.

No. Nononono. This is not happening. He breathes through his mouth, wills the nausea away. But it won't go. This is bigger than just his will – it's his body confused, his emotions scattered, his thoughts frantic. His fingers prod at his abdomen, feeling the excess pressure, feeling for the fat that's probably already started to form. He knows it's ridiculous. His hand wanders too high and he clearly feels his ribs, but are they less prominent now?

He's in the bathroom, standing at the mirror. He splashes cold water on his face, leans heavily against the sink. He stares into his own eyes in the mirror, then jerks away from it and turns to the side, scrutinizing. The nausea looms. His stomach clenches.

Nick kneels, shoulders hunched, one arm wrapped around his aching stomach as he forces his fingers down his throat.

He no longer can tell when he's empty. It all hurts the same. Now, he vomits until he sees blood, and then he knows it's over. But just in case, he tries one more time. A throbbing, stabbing pain in his stomach takes his breath away, and he stops trying, collapsing to the floor, breathing hard and fast. His head spins and he thinks for a moment that he's going to pass out, his pulse throbbing in his ears so loud he doesn't hear the knock on the stall door the first time. He does hear, however, those dreaded and hoped for words – "Nick, we need to talk."

He flushes, wipes his hand across his mouth, holds onto the latch of the stall to draw himself up, tugs the door open.

He's about to make some cross remark about privacy, but before he can form the words, the grey tile and the spiky hair in front of him begin to dissolve. He feels that sickening dizziness, that ache deep in his bones and the pain deep in his soul, watches from afar as they unravel his vision and consciousness, feels it blindly as he falls forward into nothingness.


	5. Chapter 5

**Happiness Unraveled**

**Chapter Five**

It wasn't as though Nick hadn't imagined this moment. For a long time, despite the lies, the tricks, the deception, all he'd wanted was for them to sort through the evidence and pin down the verdict.

He had pictured it over and over again. They'd tell him this was for his own good, that they knew what he'd been doing, that they were going to help him.

Nick was buried in his disorder. He knew it. He wasn't stupid, nor was he delusional. In the same way he saw his bones jutting, his strength diminishing, his muscles withering, he could see that he was far too sick to help himself. He couldn't eat a sandwich – not without the guilt welling in his throat and suffocating him, without the regret hammering at his heart until it shattered in one moment of gut-wrenching, heart-aching self-torture.

Nick knew he wasn't going to get out of this alone. He'd tried, he'd been trying, for over a year now. Despite his efforts, he had a constant sore throat, endless stomachache, he was emaciated, and he suspected he had an ulcer. He needed them to know.

He couldn't tell them. He couldn't even hint. All he's been able to do is wait, hope his crime-solving team can put together one more puzzle in time to save him. And he really _had_ been hoping. No matter how painful it would be, he knew it was necessary.

He also held no delusions about his own response. He knew, despite everything, he would lie through his teeth. He would tell them he was fine, just a little under the weather. He's on some new medication that causes weight loss. He's weak because he hasn't been eating so healthily, hasn't had the time to work out. He's pale because, well, we work night shift, after all.

But they would see through it, they would save him. And he hated to admit it, but now, more than ever, he really did need it. As much as he didn't want to say, maybe CSI is too dark for him, maybe he's just as green as he was years ago. Maybe Grissom was right. But he's beyond caring now. He just wants to see the day when he doesn't throw up every meal. He thinks it'll happen still, on occasion. But he'll call himself recovered if it's even just a couple times a week instead of several times a day.

No matter how much he didn't want them to know, he needed it. He pictured the intervention. The only thing was, he pictured it in the break room. Not in his home. But when he woke up on the cold bathroom floor, shivering and soaked in sweat, surrounded by coworkers, he knew this was the moment.

"This is the men's room," he whispered faintly, and Sara scowled at him.

"It's not like I've never seen a urinal before." She pushed his hair from his forehead as Grissom took his pulse at his wrist.

Nick struggled to sit up and, cautiously, Greg and Warrick helped him all the way to standing, where his knees buckled and they held him up.

"I'm sorry. I'm fine. I just –"

"You're not fine." Nick's eyes widened as he met Grissom's matter-of-fact gaze. "Warrick, take him home. Stay with him until we get there."

"No, Gris, just give me a minute, I can – I can drive myself. I'll uh, I'll take tomorrow off, get back on top of things. Everything's fine," Nick said hastily. They can't come to his house. It's a wreck – he hasn't felt up to cleaning – and he hasn't taken out the trash and he knows there's an almost-empty bottle of ipecac in the medicine cabinet, and he doesn't have any food to offer them, or even anything to drink except tap water.

"We'll meet you there in an hour." Grissom completely ignored Nick's words.

Nick didn't talk the whole way home. His throat ached, stung when he breathed. He shook still, though Warrick had turned on the heat in his truck and despite the fact that it wasn't cold outside.

"It's going to be okay, Nicky," Warrick said quietly, not taking his eyes from the road. "I know you don't want to talk about this, believe me, I understand. But…" he trailed off.

When they pulled into the driveway, Nick lurched from the car before Warrick shut off the engine, leaned against the SUV, doubled over. He felt like vomiting, but God knows there's nothing left inside him. Nevertheless, he staggered over to the grass and began to dry heave. Warrick held his shoulders to keep him from toppling.

When he had the gag reflex under control, Nick took a shaky breath and nodded that he was fine. Warrick led him inside.

Nick collapsed on the couch, lacking the energy to do anything about the pizza boxes stacked in the trash under the sink, the scraped-clean dishes on the counter, the lack of the tidy house he usually kept.

Warrick wandered uncomfortably around the house, glancing and noting the various evidences. He had only just sat down when the doorbell rang. Warrick glanced at Nick and then made a decision. "I'll get that."

Nick leaned back and closed his eyes. His head pounded and he concentrated on the sound of his own breathing.

When he opened his eyes, they had surrounded him. Warrick back in his chair, Grissom standing behind it, leaning lightly. Catherine rested on the couch uncomfortably close to him. Greg and Sara drew up chairs from the kitchen.

"Go ahead," he said hoarsely, staring directly at Grissom. "I already know what you're going to say."

"We're not accusing you of anything, Nick," Grissom said.

"We just want to help you," Catherine added, placing a hand on his knee. He squirmed away from her.

"By sounding like a bad TV drama intervention team?" He would've snapped it, but he lacked the energy. His accusation flopped onto the coffee table with all the lack-luster of a sloth. They looked past it.

"I'm sorry," Catherine began. "We just…I'm worried about you, Nicky."

"That line wasn't any better."

"Stop it," Warrick said, not meeting his eyes still. "We're trying to help, cut us some slack."

"I appreciate the offer and all," Nick mumbled. "But I'm fine."

"We're not buying that," Warrick said. "We know what's been going on."

"No offense," Nick said, fixing his gaze on Warrick, "but you have no idea what you're talking about."

"You're sick," Sara said softly. "We all can see it. And…we've looked up some programs, some places you can go to get help."

"What sort of places?" Nick asked, feeling his chest tighten, his eyes darting from one of his friends to the other, to the next and then the next. "What are you talking about?"

"We think," Grissom began, "we think you're suffering from an eating disorder. Anorexia, to be exact."

Nick stared, wide-eyed, then almost began to laugh. "You think I'm –?" he asked incredulously. "That's why Greg brought me food, why you're always asking about my weight? You think I'm anorexic." He had guessed, but God, he really thought they were more clever than that, he thought…he didn't know what.

"We just…we wanted to help you, somehow. You've lost so much weight, Nicky, it isn't healthy…" Catherine moved her hand back to his knee and he stood up to get away, reeling a bit as his vision blackened and then returned.

"Stop," he said. "No. No, I'm not anorexic."

"How much weight have you lost, Nick? When's the last time, besides today, you ate a full meal?" Greg asked, tone light and insistently inoffensive.

"You don't understand," Nick said. "This isn't how this was supposed to happen –" He wanted them to stop him, he wanted them to realize, to say they could help, to do something. But not this – they still weren't looking closely enough.

"Some friends you are," he spat, angry suddenly for reasons he couldn't understand. "God, I don't get it. You solve crimes for a living, you're paid to follow the evidence. If this is how you handle your cases, we've got a lot of innocent people locked up." He stalked across the room, toward the kitchen, leaned against the counter, his head in his hands.

"Nick, be rational. This isn't about us." Grissom took a furtive step closer.

"No. No. This isn't how it's supposed to go. I…look, I – I'm not anorexic. I'm –" the words wouldn't form. The whirl of memories built up.

_- on his knees vomiting blood –_

_ - the Nigel Crane tapes, the pizza, the . .angerathimself – _

_ - Ashleigh James, guilty prayers to an unknown God to pleasepleaseplease keep his secret safe – _

_ - the heart-pounding fear of purging in the lab, knowing everything could slip away – _

_ - late-night ipecac and feeling his heart ache and wondering if this time it'll stop – _

But he couldn't say the words, though every bit of self-preservation screamed for him to blurt it out, to show them.

"I'm just fine. I've been on his medication, it can cause weight loss and nausea. It's just because I can't sleep. I mean, the side effects should go away, and then everything will be fine again."

"Nick…don't lie to yourself. Not to us, but especially not to yourself," Sara tried.

"I'm not lying Sara." He forced that easy-going Texas smile. "Really."

"If that's the truth," Grissom said, "then you wouldn't mind showing me the prescription, would you?"

"No, I can show you. I'll just go get –"

"I'll come with." Grissom walked up to Nick, waited for him to lead the way. Nick swallowed hard past the ache in his acid-burnt throat and smiled.

"Yeah, this way," he muttered, leading Grissom through his bedroom to the bathroom. He had a bottle of sleeping pills – still full. He'd insist he'd just gotten it refilled, though it had really been years.

But when he opened the cabinet, it was not the prescription bottle that stared him in the eye, but that bottle of ipecac – just half a teaspoon of liquid left in the bottom of the unassuming glass vial that gave away his whole secret.


	6. Chapter 6

**Happiness Unraveled**

**Chapter Six**

Everyone has secrets. Every last one of us. There's that one thing that no one else can ever know – the thing with the power to destroy you.

In empty silence, the heart plummets to a stop, breathing slows, and absolute calm washes over. The realization that there's nothing left – not a trick, lie or mask to pull on to cover this up.

_Grissom, I can explain. I had to use some a while back, when my nephew was visiting, he got into my medicine cabinet. And then some of it spilled. That's why it's almost empty. I can explain all of it. It isn't what it looks like. You know me better than that._

Every excuse is paper-thin and flimsy. His words have worn thin. He can't bring himself to say them. Worthless words and excuses to dig himself deeper into his illness or deeper into debt to them and he just doesn't want – can't do it anymore.

Grissom picks up the glass vial, holds it up to the light, and looks at Nick. Nick stares down, into the drain of the sink, unable to even let Grissom's gaze enter his periphery. He sees his arms shaking as he grips the edges of the sink tightly, feels his whole body wracked with tremors.

"Gris, I –" he stops. The words won't come. He doesn't even know what words he would use. He had wanted them to know, but now he realizes it was a mistake. It would've been better to live with it, would've been better to die of it, than to know the disappointment in Grissom's eyes.

His eyes fall on his bruised, reddened, abraded knuckles. On the fresh blood that begins to flow red and incriminating. He knows Grissom sees it too. He wonders if Grissom is remembering the lie from so long ago – _I fell while I was running_ – and wondering how he could've believed it.

A hand rests gently on his back, rubbing lightly over the notches of his spine, before it's gone, and Grissom leaves him alone.

He looks up, meets his own eyes in the mirror. Stares into the depths of them, feeling the tears well and then recede over and over again with each breath until he thinks he can do this, because he has to. He forces himself upright, feeling all the familiar pains of his abused body. It comforts him, strangely, the pain of knowing he deserves this. He steels himself and walks back to his living room.

They've gone through his things. Pizza and take out boxes now stacked on the counter. He's sure they've noticed the empty refrigerator. Maybe they even found the plumbing bill in his mail stack on the table, left from having a pipe replaced because of too much acid.

"You're not anorexic." Sara's eyes follow him as he carefully shakes his head, silent.

"No," he whispers. "No, I'm not."

"You're bulimic." Grissom's voice is just as flat and factual as ever, but Nick can hear the disappointment, the hint of scolding. He sits down at his kitchen table, legs too shaky to hold him, watches his hands splayed on the surface.

"How long?" Warrick asks roughly, pushing out of his chair and standing across the table from Nick, leaning in. "How long have you been doing this?"

"Warrick," Catherine begins.

"No. I want to know, how long have you been trying to kill yourself?" Warrick's green eyes bore into Nick.

"I'm not…it isn't…" It wasn't about death – he didn't want to die. He wanted them to save him, but that was a mistake. Now – now all he wants is to take it all back.

"How long, Nick?"

"Since…Since Crane…" Nick whispers. He wants them to leave. He wants this to be over. Nothing they could say now could do any good. He wants them to go, so he can order pizza, eat, throw up, and go to bed. Tonight…tonight he'd be less distraught by the routine. Tonight he'd find solace.

Warrick drops into the chair next to Nick, leaning close to him, somehow still unobtrusive. And when Nick glances over, ready for anger and disappointment, all he finds is guilt and worry. "We're going to help you," he says softly.

Nick nodded, swallowing hard. He had scared them, worried them, for nothing. He didn't even know if he wanted help, if he could be helped. He wasn't worth this – they're busy people, they don't need him taking up their time. But he couldn't tell them to leave.

"Warrick, could you stay here tonight?" Grissom asks gently.

"I don't need supervision," Nick snaps, before he can help himself. _You're busy, I'm not worth this, please just go and get on with your lives_.

Grissom looks at him for a long moment. "Just for tonight," he offers, suddenly. "We're all tired, we could use a break. We'd do better to address this tomorrow, after some rest."

"No. Don't address it. I don't want help," Nick says flatly, standing up. He wavers a little, then stands strong – as strong as he can. "I don't need this. Please, just don't worry about me. Go home. I'll see you tomorrow at work."

"Nick, you can't work tomorrow, not after –" Sara begins.

"I've been working every day since this started," Nick says sharply. "Look, thanks and everything, but you don't understand this. I'll see you tomorrow."

To his surprise, they actually stand, gather their things, make to leave. Greg catches his eyes on the way out, his guilt-ridden gaze stripping Nick of all he has left. Warrick doesn't move, but watches them all go.

When the door shuts, Nick forgets about Warrick, forgets about everything but the guilt, the disappointment, the .resentment boiling over until all he can see is his own blood dripping down his hand from the stupidstupidstupid scrapes on his knuckles from a habit he can't fucking break no matter how hard he tries and he knows he's ruined.

"Nicky, I –" Before he can finish, Nick stands up and walks away, back into his bedroom, where he slams and locks the door, then collapses to his knees. He hears Warrick's footsteps stop just outside, but he doesn't care. He crawls to the bathroom floor where he's slept so many times, turns on the shower for sound, and throws up without even trying this time.

And this time, he finally is empty.


	7. Chapter 7

**Happiness Unraveled**

**Chapter Seven**

Any forensic scientist will tell you: you leave a little piece of yourself everywhere you go. Everything you touch – fingerprints, epithelial cells. Every breath you take – saliva, DNA. Every move you make tears off a little piece, a souvenir to remember you by.

He's in pieces. Stomach acid and blood in the plumbing, skin cells scraped off and washed down the drain. His secrets in the eyes of someone else. His fate in the hands of someone's god.

Nick comes out of the bathroom long enough to point Warrick to the guest room, as though he doesn't know where it is, and to tell him he can order food if he likes, take out menus by the door under the gun. Before he can hear his lines come from Warrick's mouth, he closes and locks his door, crawls into bed and buries himself. Curls into himself and tries to pretend he can't feel smooth cotton fibers slicing away his skin, can't feel Grissom's cold eyes dissecting his soul.

In the morning he gets up, forgoes the excessive scrutiny of his traditional morning and dresses. He'll be under the microscope enough today anyway.

He goes out to the kitchen to find Warrick already at the table with a cup of coffee. Nick pours himself one, digs out some bread and offers toast. They each have a piece and Nick writes it down in his notebook. Warrick peers across the table at it but neglects to say a word.

He can feel it…rough crusty bread scraping his insides, can feel the burn of acid, how easy it would be to get rid of it. He takes a breath, sips his coffee. . . .Breathe.

Warrick asks if he's ready to go and Nick waits until Warrick's in the car, engine running, before he says he forgot something and runs inside to throw up.

You leave a piece of yourself behind with every person you meet. A few words, a white lie, a casual goodbye and forever you've left something. An idea, a reality of you that may or may not be real – but it's real to them.

To most, he's Nick the good-ole-boy from Texas. Charming accent, quick to smile, off-key country songs to boot. And he owes them that. Every time he sees them, he gives that payment – flashes that smile, forces words he doesn't feel, maybe even strains his aching throat for a couple of bad notes. And every time he feels a little piece of himself escape as he bends to be what they think he is instead of being real.

And those who know him better…he can only offer them what they wish they had. He pretends so hard that he's better, that he's . until there's so little of himself left inside that he thinks the atmosphere might crush his perfect shiny exterior shell and everyone will know he's empty inside because he threw up again and they'll remember. They'll remember good-ole-Nicky is really too-broken-to-be-fixed Nicky and they'll make a new idea of who he should be and it never really ends.

Nick spends all day avoiding. He avoids his coworkers, and when he can't avoid them, he avoids himself. All about his case – a dead hooker with no ID, no name, and no leads. And when they bring up treatments, ideas, ask questions, he mumbles nothing and rushes off to DNA/trace/ballistics regardless of no evidence.

He's exhausted by noon.

" Nick, we need to talk."

"Busy."

"Your case can wait. My office." A Grissom demand is never a good sign.

He's shut into the office, door closed, blinds pulled. Him, Grissom, and every creepy crawly creature he'd never want to bear witness to this exchange.

"You have a problem."

Apparently Nick is supposed to respond to this, but he doesn't know what could be said that hasn't already been said and he doesn't really see a point anymore.

If Grissom knew what else could be said he'd be saying it, but he isn't. Or there is something to be said and he's waiting for Nick to figure it out because it's just another test. It's always another test and Nick never studies hard enough or long enough.

"Nick," Grissom begins. "Look at me."

Nick can't look. Disappointment. Scolding. Anger, if Grissom was the type to bother getting angry at Nick. But mostly just disappointment. He's already disappointed himself, why can't that be enough for anyone else? Don't they understand he already hates himself and nothing they could say could make him feel worse anyway? It just forces him to remember that he's already broken and terrible and disappointed and no one can soothe him.

"Please, Nick. I need to know what to do."

And Grissom's asking him as if he could even begin to know. As if he hasn't done everything he knew to do, everything he could think to do. As if he hasn't tortured himself trying to figure out why he's so fucked up and still come up with nothing only to feel all the worse.

"The lab will pay for treatment. We have programs. But you'd have to check yourself in. You'd have to want to get better. Do you want to get better, Nick?"

No. Of course not. He wants to feel the acid-burn, pulse-throbbing, stomach-aching pain every couple of hours, wants to feel the . of it all until he dies. No. He doesn't want to get better. He just wants to be done. Does no one understand he has nothing left to give? Treatment is for the living – Nick is already dead. He's walking, talking but he's dead. He's biding time, waiting until his body stops but his soul is already in hell.

"Go home. Think it over."

Because he hasn't thought about these options before. Because he hasn't considered every way out already only to realize there's really nothing left because he can't want to get better because he's in so deep he can't see a way out and that means it's too far and besides, he's already lying in the grave he dug.

"Warrick said he'd drive you home."

Nick leaves. Not a word, just leaves. Every piece of him that is still on his body, everything but the fingerprints, epithelial cells, DNA and soul he didn't leave with Grissom, gets up and leaves without the admission form, without his coat, without a hope.

He doesn't thank Warrick for the ride. He doesn't offer reassurance that he'll be okay on his own. He doesn't say "I'll see you tomorrow. Have a good night. Bye." Because he won't, there's no such thing, and it's all too cliché.

Nick walks into his house. Straight through the living room, back hall, bedroom, into the bathroom. He sits down on the floor. Cross-legged, like a good kid. Then he rethinks, shifts and gets more comfortable. His skin is cold and clammy. Cold water feels warm to his touch when he runs the sink. He tries to stand up to splash his face with it, but he's too shaky, too tired, too sick. He kneels on the floor, one last time.

He vomits blood. Just blood. No food, water, or anything has entered his body today. But a lot is coming out – his life force, his energy, his effort, his everything. Blood. Everywhere.

It doesn't fade to darkness, like he hoped. It fades to red.


	8. Chapter 8

**Happiness Unraveled**

**Chapter Eight**

The first thing he notices is the blood. Staining the water red, splattered on the pale blue walls, pasting his cheek to the floor.

Nick lays still, curled on his side. One arm is pinned under him, hand weakly splayed. One arm pulled tight to his chest, fingers wrapped in his shirt. His legs are folded awkwardly – he slumped to the side, collapsed, from sitting cross-legged.

His skin glows white in the flash of the camera as Warrick clicks the button, looking away. The light echoes in the pool of blood.

Warrick has been a CSI for years. He's pro, elite, he's for real. DB's don't bug him, blood can be washed out, and the scent of a decomp won't turn his stomach. But this.

He forces his eyes away, and then they drag themselves back. To the scraped knuckles, sallow skin, achingly thin DB that used to be his best friend.

Years from now, he'll still remember this. He'll remember the scent of cold iron in the air as blood dries into rust on the tile. The exact shade of grey-white death of the skin. The single, shiny tear that fell onto the screen of the camera as he looked through the pictures.

For all the lies he let sink under his skin, he's startled to find that one truth brands even deeper.

* * *

Doc Robbins was never religious, nor was he superstitious. He didn't say a prayer for each body that rolled through his morgue. He didn't believe that death came in threes or fives or eighteens. He understood – death happens. It happens often. Brutal or gentle, murder or natural, early or far too late. But it happens.

Every body looks pretty much the same inside. Same organs, within the same size range, same arrangement. For the most part. So when he opens up Nick Stokes, he doesn't see anything unfamiliar.

No, the only thing that is unfamiliar is the prick to his heart, the stab in his stomach, and the rush of oxygen from his lungs. The utter silence in the place of secrets – where the body usually whispered to him, there was nothing.

It feels like violating his friend, but he runs his fingers down a ladder of ribs, paper skin pretending to cover the lies. He asks himself why no one saw this, stopped it, saved it.

He kicks himself for ever thinking of Nick Stokes as an "it."

Except that's all he is now. He's a body, not a person. Nick Stokes left his body when a perforated ulcer drained his life in a few slow, painful hours. This body was put through the wringer – a burnt and desiccated esophagus, malnourished heart, and overtaxed organs. Nick had pushed his body within an inch of its life and then had pushed it a little farther.

After all the DBs Doc Robbins had seen, he could attest to only one thing. The one thing he told his colleagues as Grissom, Cath, Warrick, Sara and Greg crowded neatly around the slab.

Every death is a missing persons case. Dead is dead, no matter the cause or the reasons, the result was the same. An empty body and a lost soul.

* * *

She cleans out his locker.

It seems like the least she can do, since she didn't clean his conscience or his soul.

Catherine places all his things neatly in a box. His family will be here soon, in Grissom's office, to hear an explanation and a quiet plea for forgiveness or at least absolution.

She doesn't know that they will offer either of those, or anything at all. But she thinks, if nothing else, this might be a down payment on the debt.

She became a mother before she was ready. Married, yes. Mature, not really. But things happen and once they do, there is no going back. And there are no regrets. Catherine Willows has never regretted a thing in her life – because it all led her here. To a job she enjoys, friends she admires, and a daughter she loves more than life itself.

But any mother will tell you, this is the day she dreads, loathes, pretends against with all her might.

There is no neat way to pack away a life into cardboard boxes, to give away bits and pieces in yard sales, to dole out crumbs to Goodwill and the Salvation Army. To offer small but significant scraps to the people who don't need reminding. There's really no way to do it at all.

But to ask any mother to deal with the few remaining items that acknowledge her child's existence and then to force her to make amends, move on, and let the life disperse?

That's just cruel.

Catherine's tears make pale damp spots on a couple of Nick's shirts. She catches the corner of his beloved CSI vest on the corner of the door and it tears.

But what she remembers most – after she goes home to her daughter, does chores, has a meal and showers – is that she can still catch the scent of him on her hands. Old Spice, Ivory soap, and skin. But even under all that, she can smell it – the cold-metal scent of his blood on her hands.

* * *

He's grateful they don't ask for answers, because he doesn't have any. In fact, he doesn't have anything to offer them at all. But they don't seem to want anything except the one thing no one can ever have again.

A chance.

He explains, haltingly, the cause of death. Time of death. How to make arrangements. It is all routine, in a way. Though he is supposed to investigate death, Grissom spends a fair amount of time investigating grief. There is a reason he bored of people and poker. It's all the same.

But he is grateful for that, today. Because today, he pretends the parents of his CSI are not who they are. They are any other couple who have lost a son. Mrs. Stokes is the quietly tearful but slowly dissolving mother, and Judge Stokes is the impenetrable stone father. He gruffly offers his thanks for the poor delivery of poor news. He shuffles his wife out the door.

_He was bulimic, and probably anorexic. His body couldn't handle the wear anymore._

Blunt, as always, no tact. Grissom winced at the memory.

But the worst part, as always, was when the mother asked if her son died in pain.

_Yes. _In pain, alone, and afraid. After years of slowly killing himself, his death was both instantaneous – heart stopping – and prolonged. He wished he had thought to lie.

But lies were what got them here, Grissom supposed. Nick's lies, and his own failure to see the truth.

The truth is always revealed the evidence. For the first time, Gilbert Grissom failed to follow the evidence. He failed to notice it at all.


	9. Chapter 9

**Happiness Unraveled**

**Chapter Nine**

It's a tricky business, to make death a job. To train yourself to see evidence without fear, anger, or any other emotion. To piece together a crime without trying to pick up the pieces of shattered lives. Not letting those little pieces ever ever edge under your skin. Because you know they'll work their way into your bloodstream and go straight for the heart.

One basic principle of human psychology is the hindsight bias. Looking back, it's all so clear. Once the puzzle is pieced together, that picture is pretty damn obvious.

Grissom works his way through the papers. Removing Nick from payroll. Terminating his employment. Closing his files. Finishing his cases for him.

And yet, months later, Grissom still finds little pieces of Nick scattered in torn scraps about the edges of his life. One of his Tupperware containers left in the break room. A book on his shelf dog-eared the way only Nick did. Opening a case file one day to find Nick's neat handwriting stamped across the evidence log. And each and every time, that memory clouds his mind.

_Driving to a crime scene, Nick's knuckles white on the steering wheel. Wipers slashing across the flooded glass. And when they stepped out of the car, being immediately soaked by the kind of rain only a desert can recognize, watching as Nick's shirt plastered to his ribs and hip bones. As the rain dripped off sharp cheekbones and was swiped away by scraped, bony hands. _

_ Another day, a day just in the lab, crashing into Nick as he stepped out of the bathroom, eyes red-rimmed, skin grey. Noticing the trembling muscles as he caught the younger CSI's shoulders and assured him it was okay, cautioning him to watch where he was going. Turning back at the end of the hall to see Nick collapse into a chair as though his legs just gave out. _

He remembers every comment. Every word he ever says that could even maybe have contributed. _That's why you're not ready. Stop whining and do your job. You're not perfect yet._

He writes them all down on a notepad. Every single word. Marking the evidence, dating and tagging it. Then he seals it away in an envelope marked "Nick Stokes" under a stack of papers.

Grissom tries to tell himself it's just another case. The scene was like this when he got there. Blood and carnage strewn everywhere – Nick had always had that in him.

But he never rids himself of the sneaking suspicion that his fingerprints may be inked in blood at the scene of the crime.

* * *

Catherine remembers his words. _"I was nine. She was a last-minute babysitter."_

She remembers her own words. _Nothing. She stared in silence, hugged him, and let it be_.

Had she ever asked if he had gotten help? Did she ever wonder if he needed to talk? If that faint insecurity that blurred the edges of his being stemmed from the fear and guilt of what happened to him?

And she said nothing when Grissom pushed Nick down with his tactless comments, however unintentionally. She saw how Nick, instead of rising to the challenge, shrank under the scrutiny. How, as hard as he tried, he could never achieve the confidence he lacked.

She wonders why she never told Grissom to give Nick a break. Why she didn't talk to Nick any of the times she watched him falter under the weight of the world.

_She walked into the locker room, a long shift finally winding down. Her feet ached, her head hurt, her eyes yearned to close. _

_ He sat on the bench in front of his locker, head bowed. No, not bowed. Head hanging, shoulders slumped. From across the room, she could hear him breathe roughly for a long moment before she realized it wasn't a breath but a whisper. _

_ He bit his lip, caught his head in his hands, fists curling in his hair. And then he stood up sharply, smacking one hand sharply against his locker before leaning against it, pressing his forehead to the icy metal. _

_ "Nick?" She walked up to him, one hand resting lightly on his shoulder. She felt him start, muscles tense, but he didn't move. "You okay?" Not a word. Not even a nod. She patted his shoulder lightly. "I'm here for you." _

_ And then she walked away_.

* * *

All Warrick remembers is the lack of evidence. The fact that, until a few months ago, Nick was perfectly fine. Not perfect, not great, but fine. Normal weight, normal behavior, still smiling, if somewhat forcibly.

And to hear that after all of this, he had started this years ago. That Nick had been starving, binging and purging for _years_ before anyone had ever noticed.

What Warrick remembers, long after he forgets the lyrics to Nick's annoying country songs, and even long after the pain of loss doesn't pervade every moment, what Warrick remembers is the lies.

_Just a stomach bug. _

_ I'm fine. _

_ Just gotta use the bathroom real quick before we leave. _

_ Don't worry. _

_ I'm not sick. _

_ I don't need help. _

Every day, every word a manipulation to cover the truth. He remembers every time he heard Nick say "No, I'm healthy" even as Warrick counted his ribs through his shirt. He remembers every time Nick insisted he was tired and they'd hit the gym tomorrow. Every time Nick said "see you tomorrow" when he wasn't sure he would. But even more than that, Warrick remembers the one truth Nick told, the one truth that no one believed.

_You don't understand this_.


End file.
